I have no
doubt at all but that, in imagination, he has you safe in some island of
Cythera or another, and has slain every other male inhabitant of it lest
some one of them should happen to look at your footprints in the sand.
Jealous! He would sicken at the word--not because he would be ashamed, but
because it would conjure up the vision of some satyr-shape, and haunt him
day and night. He has no need to study Persian poetry, I assure you. He
has rose-gardens enough and to spare; for, if you are inclined to be
flattered at my suggestion of Cythera, I hasten to assure you that yours
is not the only island of his dominion. Bless you, he'll have an
archipelago. But I have no fear for you; you can afford a sentimental
education."
Sanchia did not tell her old friend how far that education was proceeding
--not because she was afraid, still less because she was ashamed, but in
obedience to her nature, which was extremely reserved. She spoke of
herself and her affairs with difficulty--never unless she was forced. But
it had become a custom just now--in the dull days on either side of
Christmas--to look for Morosine in the reading-room about noon, to stroll
the galleries for half-an-hour, to receive and to agree to a lightly-
offered proposition that they should lunch together, and (it might well
be) to accept his escort homewards.
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